


The Missing Chapters

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Friendship, Kink Negotiation, Light Angst, Like featherlight!, M/M, Mirrors, Really very light angst, Rebecca gives John relationship advice, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Which Goes Very Badly, everyone loves Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-04-25 20:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14386908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: Update: Monday, 7 May 2018Surprise!I've been working on these final chapters! For the sake of simplicity, I'm sticking all these "cut scenes" here. I renamed it and gave it multiple chapters. "Invitation" was posted in its entirety, but the remaining scenes will be posted in smaller increments.Update: Saturday, 25 August 2018There were originally only three missing chapters, but I've divided them into five. Because of that, I renamed the title of this work from "The Final Three" to "The Missing Chapters." I've vowed to work on the rest of these chapters as soon as I finishAll the Things We Do to Each Other.I have September and October to work on them and any other story ideas I've got lying around feeling unloved before I have to knuckle down and write my super secret Christmas special story. Because, you know, I was infected with trope-ism.~Teddy~





	1. Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> **Update: Monday, 7 May 2018**  
>  **Surprise!** I've been working on these final chapters! For the sake of simplicity, I'm sticking all these "cut scenes" here. I renamed it and gave it multiple chapters. "Invitation" was posted in its entirety, but the remaining scenes will be posted in smaller increments.   
>  **Update: Saturday, 25 August 2018**  
>  There were originally only three missing chapters, but I've divided them into five. Because of that, I renamed the title of this work from "The Final Three" to "The Missing Chapters." I've vowed to work on the rest of these chapters as soon as I finish _All the Things We Do to Each Other._ I have September and October to work on them and any other story ideas I've got lying around feeling unloved before I have to knuckle down and write my super secret Christmas special story. Because, you know, I was infected with trope-ism.  
>  ~Teddy~

* * *

**Tuesday, 9 July 2013**

Two and a half months after the press conference, Rebecca asks John to meet her for a pint when she gets off work. She's trying to talk John around to going to the  party celebrating the birth of Olivia and Bernie's son, but John is nervous about how he'll be received by Gerald and doesn't want to show up at such an important event if it will cause any awkwardness or draw attention from the main event—that being the little event himself, Milton.

"I just don't know what to say to Gerald," John says.

"Well, darling, what do you _want_ to say to him?" she asks, putting her hand over his on the bar and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"That I'm so sorry. That I never could have guessed that Sherlock was still alive." John stops, pulls his hand out of Rebecca's and rubs it against his forehead, agitated. "The thing is, Becca. I _could_ have guessed it—if there's one person who could come back from the dead, it was Sherlock Holmes. I, I wasn't surprised, you see. I mean, I _was_ , of course. Surprised. But then, I wasn't."

"And that makes you feel guilty, I suppose."

"Yes."

"You feel you, what—deceived him?"

"Well, no. Not purposefully, at any rate."

Rebecca takes a deep breath. John looks up at her face. Her lips are pursed. She's looking him over, a frown over her forehead. She smiles wistfully.

"Honey, Gerald started a relationship with you _knowing_ you were in love with your best friend. Do you know why he did that? Why someone as confident and well-balanced as Gerald would enter into a romantic relationship with a man who was in love with his dead best friend? A man who would always be, even if just a tiny bit, in love with someone else? Would always be just a tiny bit emotionally unavailable?"

John knows this is a rhetorical question, but he gamely shakes his head.

"Because Gerald himself was in love with his best friend. And he was always going to be a tiny bit in love with someone else, and a tiny bit emotionally unavailable."

"But, then, why—?"

"Why weren't he and Cyril together?"

John nods.

"Because when they were eighteen, Cyril—who was always trouble with a capital T and ridiculously prone to large appetites—drove Gerald away because he was terrified he would break Gerald's heart. Cyril never stopped believing that he would hurt Gerald and lose him forever. He didn't stop loving Gerald and Gerald didn't stop loving him, though."

"God, how could they stand it? Sherlock wasn't back a day before we, well—you know that story."

Rebecca smirks. "They just never talked about it again and they were too blinded by how they felt to see that the other felt it, too."

"But you knew."

"We all knew!" Rebecca says. "Anyone who ever saw the two of them in the same room knew!"

"Why didn't you—"

"We _did_ , John! Oh, bloody, hell, we _did_ ! I tried. Bernie tried. Olivia tried. They didn't believe us and were too terrified to ask each other, so—" Rebecca spreads her hands. _There you have it_.

"Twenty years," John whispers in awe. "They loved each other for twenty years and never said a thing."

"Sad, right?"

"Fucking Shakespearean tragedy, that," John jokes. "Well, minus the dying part."

"Breaking up is always awkward when the two of you share the same friends, but you two will get over it. After all, Cyril has finally professed his love, and I'm quite sure he's been keeping Gerald busy. The two of them haven't even been showing their ugly faces they're so busy shagging—"

"Rebecca!" John  hisses, looking around, making sure nobody overheard.

Rebecca, unrepentant, grins and continues. "Speaking of not showing up, you and Sherlock haven't left the flat much, either, have you? With all _four_ of you busy sha—"

"For _Christ's_ sake!" John says, his face turning red. He hides his grin behind the pint glass in his hand.

"Anyway, I'm sick of being stuck with Bernie—who, need I remind you, I've known my whole life—and Olivia, especially now they've got bloody Milton to pay attention to."

"Like you're not the adoring aunt."

"Oh, I totally am, of course I am!" Rebecca says, grinning. "I didn't know being an aunt made one so impractical. I'm an absolute cooing puddle the minute I see him. It's absolutely disgusting. When you think about it, he's basically a two and a half kilo blob with roughly human features, no personality, and who communicates by shrieking."

John grins. "Babies do have that effect on people."

"Oh, and don't you know, all those pictures of ugly babies people have shown me over the years and I thought, _I'll never think my ugly baby is pretty_ , and Milton looks like a cross between a Sharpei and a garden gnome and yet all I see is how _gorgeous_ he is! Have you been to see him?"

John nods though his laughter. "I have. I would say he's quite handsome."

"Oh, you're just being diplomatic," Rebecca says, even though they both know he's not.

"Olivia said he was unusually content while I was there."

"Yes, he seems to prefer male voices to female ones, which is just shit luck for him, poor doll. Did you hold him?"

"Yes," John says and smiles wistfully.

"Do you want children?" she asks.

John's heart rate goes up and he feels his face heat in embarrassment, as though he's been caught doing something wrong. "No, I—well a bit, when I was—younger, and still thought I was going to meet a nice, normal woman, and settle down. As opposed to a mad bastard. He'd probably experiment on any child of ours. But, I mean—that's just—not that we would have a child for him to experiment on. It’s just, we would be _terrible_ parents, you know. Our lifestyle isn't really conducive to competent parenting."

"I don't know about that," Rebecca says defensively, as though he'd questioned her ability instead of his own. "Lifestyles can be adjusted to fit in a child."

"Sherlock doesn't want kids."

"And you know that for a fact, do you?" she asks in her irritatingly know-it-all voice that reminds him of Harry when they were kids, back when they fought over couch space, and who got to sit in the front seat, and who got to shower first (and whoever went first got screamed at for using all the hot water), as opposed to now when they don't fight at all because at some point between Harry's drinking problem and John off at war in Afghanistan, they turned into strangers who were too busy falling apart to bother fighting with each other.

"Yeah, pretty sure," John says, his voice gone soft and quiet, thinking about Harry more than babies, and feeling that familiar stab of regret for not realizing she mattered until she was lost to him.

"Has he said, unequivocally, that he doesn't want children?"

"He doesn't have to, Rebecca," John says firmly, trying to end this line of questioning. "He hates children. Drop it."

"Okay, okay. Fine. But—"

John groans in annoyance, but it doesn't stop her.

" _But_ —if you could see your face when you said you'd held Milton—I'm just saying, John, don't write off the opportunity. You're only forty-two—"

"Which is far too old to start having children—"

" _And_ ," she says loud enough to draw the attention of the bartender, who raises his eyebrows at them, and John can tell he's about to move over here to ask if they need drinks refills, and John waves him away while ignoring Rebecca who scoffs, "You're not listening to me, are you?"

John looks at her in surprise, and says, "Oh, were you talking? I'm sorry. I thought I'd made it clear we were moving on from that subject." John fiddles with his glass. Shakes his head. Tries to speak. Doesn't.

"Alright," Rebecca says carefully, turning to face the same direction as John, her fizzing, bubbling personality capped for now. She takes a deep breath, and says, "Please come on Saturday, John. Sherlock is invited, too."

John huffs out a bitter laugh, recognizing the first of many times in the rest of his life when he'll have to make excuses for Sherlock. "Trust me, he won't go. He hates having to _make nice_."

"Oh, for god's sake, it's just _us_!"

"Yeah, but he doesn't know you, does he? So, he's just going to be miserable, or worse—be an arse, and _deduce_ —" even as it comes out of him coated in derision, it stings, "—everyone, and expose all your secrets, and then everyone will hate him."

"We don't have any secrets," Rebecca says, and laughs deeply. "We're all a bunch of nosy, gossiping busybodies, and he knows _me_ , and he knows, well—just me, but still. He won't get to know everyone else, will he? If he doesn't come?"

"I'll make sure to point that out," John says with a snort, taking a drink of his beer, resentful of the disdain he knows Sherlock must have for this part of John's life, and how unlikely it will be for them to intersect.

"Gerald told me you would feel uncomfortable, that you'd make this excuse."

"I'm not making excuses," John says, mouth tight, staring into his empty glass. He holds it up to the bartender who nods, and fills another. Rebecca doesn't say anything while John looks straight ahead. When the bartender brings his new, John says _ta_ and the bartender moves back to the paper he's reading.

"I'm sorry, John, I just—"

"No, look, it's fine," John says, staring at his glass, and shaking his head, feeling guilty for overreacting. "I'm just—before, with Sherlock, I couldn't have a life outside of—him. The two weren't compatible. And then when he was gone, and I met all of you, I thought, well—I'd let him dominate my life because I didn't really _want_ a life outside of him, you know? And then he came back, and Gerald and I broke up, and I had to lie to you lot, and _Gerald_ had to lie to you lot, and I—I hated it, yeah? And _then_ , I realized that the reason I didn't have a life outside of Sherlock, _before_ , was half my fault, and half his. He—I think—he did it on purpose, made it incompatible to go out on dates, and have a job, and the other things ordinary people do. We were lying to each other a bit, I think—we didn't have anyone else outside of each other, not really—I mean, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you know, Molly, Mike. _Mycroft_."

"Yes, the shadowy, government agent brother."

John smiles a little ruefully, and nods, and feels a warm sort of fondness for Mycroft. "My point, though, is that we kept ourselves to ourselves because we wanted desperately to be _together_ together—"

"Lovers," she says softly, and slowly spins her glass in her hands.

John looks at her face, and sees a secret smile, and knows she's remembering what it feels like to fall in love. He glances at her wedding ring, the simplicity of it, so different from her personality, and very much different from her sister's wedding ring, and then looks forward again.

"Yeah," he says, and a grin breaks out on his face even though he's not quite sure what he's grinning about. _(Do not think about Sherlock on his knees in the shower this morning, do_ not _get hard in the middle of this pub or she will tease you mercilessly.)_ He clears his throat, pushing down the want that's unfurled inside him so fast that it's like being blindfolded, spun around, and then told to find his way home without being able to see where he's going. Just like it does every time he thinks of Sherlock on his knees, or behind him, above him, _in_ him, so _crushingly_ in love and joyful that, every now and again, dread drives a spike into his spine, and he thinks _this can't possibly last—I'm the last person who deserves to be this happy._

"John," Rebecca says, poking him in the shoulder.

"Yeah, sorry," John says, unable to hide his blush.

"You went a bit a goofy for a minute," she says, holding back a laugh, but then they look at each other and they both laugh, louder and more enthusiastically than the moment warrants, feeding off each other's laughter, and John thinks _this is my life now—love and friendship, and sex with a gorgeous mad bastard._

And he remembers, too, months ago—no, a _year_ ago—Gerald in the bathroom at Baker Street, sitting on a towel on the toilet, waiting for John to stitch up the split lip John had given him during a PTSD nightmare, and the two of them laughing, Gerald trying to laugh without moving his stinging lip, the sound like _hoo hoo hoo_ , John howling in laughter, his laughter fueling Gerald's laughter fueling John's laughter. John, so full of endorphins that he felt high, had to go stand in the kitchen to stop laughing, and when he came back, he knew he couldn't look Gerald in the eye or they would start up again.

It was the first time, after losing Sherlock, that he'd felt love might be possible again, that he might just be able to share the rest of his life with someone who wasn't Sherlock. Gerald, so deceptively, incredibly sexy in nothing but loose boxers and his shoulder length black hair tied up with an elastic on the top of his head—had created the same reaction in him that Sherlock, in a sleek, dark grey, fine wool suit did— _does_. Still.

"You've gone a bit goofy again," Rebecca says, annoyed and a bit petulant. "I thought you'd be the least moony out of the two of you—"

"Two of you who?"

"You and Gerald."

The way she says it makes him feel like they're still together, like when John first met Gerald's friends, and Rebecca teased them about never leaving the flat because all they did was fuck, and Gerald blushed, but looked thunderous. Cyril had come up then, and ruffled Gerald's hair, and he'd turned around, alarmed, and said, _knock it off!_ and John was already rising out of his chair before he realized it, and Cyril was saying _oh, please, why else would you keep this gorgeous hair long, if not for all the men to wrap it around their hand?_ and John had said _Oi! Get your fuckin' hands off him! The only man who's gonna touch that hair is me._ Gerald had been quick to referee, to introduce Cyril to John, but John had kept a possessive arm around Gerald all night, glowering at Cyril who'd looked completely unaffected, and falsely cheerful.

"Gerald is all moony and in love, and you've got that fucking _gorgeous_ , tall, devilish man—I'm so jealous, you bastard. He is way out of your league. You know that, right?"

"Hey! I'll remind you that when we met, you said if you weren't married, you'd drag me off to bed, that you loved the boys who swung both ways—your words, not mine—because they weren't afraid to fuck rough and hard."

"Oh, yeah, I did, didn't I?" Rebecca says, scrunching her nose up before pushing her bottom lip out slightly, the picture of haughty petulance. "Well, I take it back, because Gerald got to keep you, and then you went off with that man of yours—I mean, _god_ , John—that _arse_ , though, right?"

"Do _not_ look at my boyfriend's arse," John says, trying for stern.

"You can't stop me," Rebecca says, crossing her arms.

"Yeah," John says, thinking about Sherlock's arse, pale and plush and begging to be bitten. He licks his bottom lip, and then bites it. Shakes his head, trying to shake off the image. "I mean, no, I can't stop you."

"You're picturing his arse, aren't you?" she asks.

He has to bite back a grin, his shoulders shivering with silent laughter.

"His _naked_ arse. Aren't you?" She sounds scandalized, as if she hadn't just admitted to admiring Sherlock's arse, too.

"Yeah," he says, letting his grin out, rubbing his hand over his mouth, almost shy about his incessant lustful thoughts, and his pride in the lush arse being discussed, as though it's an accomplishment he achieved with hard work and perseverance. (Though it is, kind of, when he thinks about it. There is no possible reality in which it can be said that having a love affair with Sherlock Holmes is _easy_ , but Sherlock has worked for what they have just as much as John.)

"Look, I've got to get home," Rebecca says, looking at her watch. "Jasper will have supper waiting, and he gets in a strop if I'm late." John snorts, and Rebecca stops digging in her purse, and says, "What?" indignantly.

"I'm the Jasper of my relationship with Sherlock."

"Oh, _please_ ," Rebecca says with a roll of her eyes. "Bribing Sherlock with oral sex to eat a piece of toast and an _egg_ at two in the morning because he's not eaten for three days is hardly on par with Jasper. He's very— _organized_ ." She says it like it's a flaw in his personality. "There's a _timetable_ . It's all very proper nonsense. _My family ate supper together every night, and that's what I expect for my own family._ "

"Monstrous, he is. Yeah. Cooking supper for your wife every night is really just an unthinkable offense."

"Oh, shut up," she says, and pushes him aside with good-natured roughness as she gets off her stool.

Rebecca pays the tab, and John lets her, and they walk outside, the sky still light at almost nine in the evening. A taxi pulls up, and John opens her door. When she's half in and half out of the cab, she asks, earnestly, "But you will come, right?"

"Of course I will," John says, and kisses her cheek.

"And Sherlock?"

"Don't hold your breath." At the look on her face, John capitulates. "I will _try_ to get him to come."

"Bribe him with sex."

"If giving him head only earns me a piece of toast and an egg, what on earth do you think would earn me an entire evening socializing with people, one of whom is my ex-boyfriend? On, and a baby!"

Rebecca looks thoughtful, and says, quite solemnly, meaning it, "Yes, I see your point."

"So, like I said—I will try."

"Figure out his kink," she says, almost to herself before she looks at John, and waggles her eyebrows suggestively, before saying, "Fulfill his nastiest, filthiest fantasy in exchange for his attendance to the party."

John pauses, completely taken off guard, as she finishes sliding into the cab. "You frighten me sometimes, you know," he says finally.

Rebecca gives him a predatory wink and pulls the door out of John's hands. The cab pulls away, and John is left standing on the sidewalk, smiling like he's mental, getting hard, thinking of all the dirty things Sherlock has groaned and whispered in John's ear every time they have sex.

"Taxi!" he yells, almost stepping into the middle of the road, arm flailing.

~*~


	2. Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John asks Sherlock about his kink, but then fumbles it very badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sticking these last cut scenes here in one book rather than separate stories. So, yeah. I know this is angsty? But, I swear, it turns out awesome. Stay with me. Like you always do.  
> ~Teddy~

* * *

**Tuesday, 9 July 2013**

John comes home from drinks with Rebecca to find Sherlock eating Mrs. Hudson’s shepherd's pie. He gives him a kiss on the forehead, which Sherlock brushes away in annoyance.

"Do you have a kink?" he asks, leaning against the worktop.

"Why do you want to know?" Sherlock asks, the fork in his hand stilling for only a second on its way to his mouth.

"Remember I told you that Olivia and Bernie were having a baby?"

"Ye-es," Sherlock says slowly.

"They're having a party on Saturday and they've invited us."

"I know you think I have magical powers to connect clues to form a picture, but I must admit I'm stumped on this one."

John laughs at his confusion and Sherlock shovels the last of the mashed potatoes into his mouth and gets up. He makes his way into the sitting room, while John follows, grabs John's laptop and then puts it down and grabs his own before stretching out on the couch. He looks up as he opens the lid on his computer.

"Go on," Sherlock says with a nod.

"They're having a party to celebrate the baby, and they've invited us." John hesitates, not wanting to trip Sherlock's defensiveness by suggesting he has to be bribed to attend a social function with John, but also not wanting to be outright rejected for asking Sherlock to go. "Saturday night. Do you want to go?"

"Are you asking if I want to go because, personally, I'll enjoy myself? Or are you asking if I want to go because _you_ want to go and I like to give you things you want?" Sherlock asks without looking up, fingers flying over the keyboard. He frowns at something he reads. John watches the light of the laptop skittering over Sherlock's face as he navigates through multiple webpages.

"Um—both?"

Sherlock looks up. "If you want me to go, I'll go. I still don't see what that has to do with my kink."

"Rebecca suggested I bribe you to go by offering to fulfill your sexual kink. If you had one, that is."

"You wouldn't like it," Sherlock says, and even though his hands are still poised over the keyboard like he's about to start typing at any time, John knows all of Sherlock's laser intense focus is centered on him.

"Your kink? I wouldn't like your kink?"

"No."

"Well. It's a moot point. You said you'd go anyway, without a sexual bribe, so—"

"Indeed," Sherlock says sharply.

John waits, but that seems to be the end of the conversation. Of course, now he's curious. He heats the last of Mrs. Hudson's shepherd's pie in the microwave and sits in his chair with his tablet. There's a good book one of his colleagues suggested called _How Doctors Think_ written by a doctor, and he's been meaning to start it. He turns on his tablet, pulls up the book, and takes a bite of his shepherd's pie. But he can't get it out of his head—what would Sherlock Holmes find kinky?

"For argument's sake, though—" John says, and Sherlock groans using the entirety of his upper body to highlight his irritation. John's cheeks flush. He hates it when Sherlock responds to him as though he's just so _terribly dull_. "Fine," John snaps.

There's silence for a minute before Sherlock sighs and says, "I would not agree to make a deal to exchange your sexual obeisance for my attendance at a social gathering of your friends because it would backfire. In case you need reminding, the results of the last deal we made is still charted on a spreadsheet on my hard drive, and you didn't like that one either," says Sherlock, low and serious.

"I'm just curious! If you don't want to tell me—" John says, putting his hands up like it's no skin off his nose whether Sherlock tells him or not, even though it's suddenly the most important thing in the universe and his skin is prickling with apprehension, but anticipation as well. If Sherlock is as good at being kinky as he is about almost everything else, he could probably talk John around to all kinds of debauchery.

"My Belstaff and red stilettos," Sherlock says suddenly, fast and breathless, his eyes still on the screen of his laptop, his hands frozen above the keys.

"Um," John says, surprised, of course, because he never would have guessed Sherlock would be into— _crossdressing_. John asks, "Er, so you, uh, what—want to wear stilettos and your Belstaff while we have sex?" Sherlock shakes his head quickly, still staring at his laptop, and then it hits John. "You want _me_ to wear the stilettos."

"Yes," Sherlock says, and licks his lips. "And the Belstaff. If you're interested, we can—explore things—but I don't want you to give me sexual favors because of—that. I said I would go, so."

"Yeah," John says, his brow furrowed. "But, I mean—we should be able to talk about these things with each other. Right?"

"Why are you asking me?" Sherlock says with a glare. "This is the first actual relationship I've ever been in. Sex is completely separate."

"Wait a minute—we're in a relationship that involves sex. How can they be separate things?"

Finally, Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes burning like coals in his face, and even though John isn't sure what they're talking about anymore, he's sure that Sherlock's fever-bright eyes and cheeks make him want to do all kinds of kinky things with Sherlock, anything he wants as a matter of fact because he would do _anything_ for Sherlock when Sherlock looks at him like _that_.

"Okay," John says, nodding his head, trying not to let his face reflect what he's thinking which is _touchmydickplease_ "Uh. What, uh—would happen? I mean, are you going to have sex with me while I'm wearing them or—?"

"You would be wearing the shoes while we had sex," Sherlock says, and then flushes splotchy red, eyes sliding away from John. "You would take the coat off when you arrived. It's, well—like role play."

"Arrived where? And what would I be role playing? I mean, is it that you—" John stops, and then takes a deep breath and tries to look confident rather than what he's feeling because he feels about fourteen years old. "I don't—I'm not sure I get why you want me to wear high heels. Is it a—" John stops, and then lowers his voice, making it sound calm and not at all judgmental, before saying, "Do you have a thing for crossdressing or—"

"No!" Sherlock cries, looking horrified, and John raises his hands in a placating gesture and says, "Okay, don't get upset, I'm just—I'm just trying to understand _why_ you want me to wear the coat and shoes. I mean—okay, look. Tell me exactly how you see it playing out. I want to hear about the things that turn you on. That kind of thing."

Sherlock's face is beginning to look hopeful, which fertilizes a knot of growing dread in John's stomach. He _hates_ to say no to Sherlock when he's allowing himself to be vulnerable because it's such a rare thing. John reminds himself that this is _Sherlock_ , who he's been fucking for three months and anyway, it's not like he's asking for something gross like pissing on him or pretending to be an infant.

"You'd shower and shave, just like you would if you were going on a date. It's supposed to feel like a _seduction_."

"I don't have to shave my legs or anything, do I?"

Sherlock doesn't have to say _don't be absurd_. His face makes it pretty clear. John twirls his finger in the _okay, keep going I'm listening_ sign.

"Once you're ready, you would don the coat and shoes, and then you would meet me at—I have a—a place."

"A place. Is that where you take all the men you're trying to seduce? You have a secret sin palace?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No," he says, drawing the word out. "It was a dance studio, and the owner was selling it so I bought it as an investment. Anyway, I would set up the scene at this place and you would meet me there, and then—" Sherlock makes a vague gesture with his hand and shrugs as if he doesn't have to explain to John what happens next.

John stares at him. "Give me more details than _wear the coat and the shoes and meet me at my secret sin palace._ "

"John," Sherlock says, drawing John's name out so it sounds like _Jawwwn_ , the way he always does when he's exasperated. "It's a _seduction_ scene. You're not supposed to know what's going to happen."

"Yeah, okay, but other than getting all spiffed up like I'm going on a date, and wearing your coat and the shoes—I mean, like, okay—so I pack up the coat and shoes and take a taxi to your secret sin palace, and then we have sex?"

"I would be waiting for you—"

"At your sin palace—"

"At my _investment_ _property_ —"

"Oh, that's hot, Sherlock, seriously—who wouldn't drop their trousers at the words _investment property_."

"Are you going to continue to interrupt me?" Sherlock asks, scowling. John shakes his head, chagrined. "I would arrange a cab to pick you up here at 6 p.m. and bring you to me. And then, well—and then I would seduce you. The salient points are that you put on the Belstaff and stilettos, and go downstairs, and get in the cab. The driver will know where—"

"Wait a minute, Sherlock. You want me to _walk downstairs_ in nothing but your bloody great coat and some fucking women's shoes, right here where _Mrs. Hudson_ could see me? Or our neighbors?"

Sherlock's face does this thing that reminds John of the night he had the flashback, when his head was ducked down low and he was ashamed and John swore he would never make him feel ashamed, not about sex, but that's what he's done. The light has gone out of Sherlock's face, and his body is stiff and he's turned back to the computer, his shoulders hunched up over it as his fingers hover over the keys and John is mad, _spitting_ mad, out of nowhere and he doesn't know why. Only he does, actually, because he swore to himself that he'd never make Sherlock feel that way, but then he went and did it, and now he doesn't know how to fix it—isn't sure he _wants_ to fix it right now. John is willing to take a cock up his arse, but his masculinity cannot handle wearing women's shoes. It just cannot.

"I said you wouldn't like it," Sherlock says, sounding miserable.

John rubs his hands across his face, and stands up, and says, "Yeah, well. As usual, Sherlock, you were right—I can't do it. I mean, _Jesus_."

Sherlock's face turns ugly when John says _Jesus_ and he says, "Congratulations, John, you've finally discovered I'm a _freak_ after all. I assume you'll give my apologies to your friends on Saturday. After all, we wouldn't want to expose Milton to a sexual deviant."

"You're a dick," John growls, and storms off to the bedroom.

~*~


End file.
